


between the shadow and the soul

by fritzbitz



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Disabled Character, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mostly hurt, Trespasser, agressively pro-elf Lavellan and all the implications that brings, there are only more Solavellan tears, there is no such thing as past Solavellan, this is past Solavellan mostly but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 23:17:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9209747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fritzbitz/pseuds/fritzbitz
Summary: If he succeeded, would he think of her? When life and the world he watched her build crumbled into the void, she wondered, would he picture her reveling in the beauty of destruction? In his impossibly long life, made longer in dreaming, could he still think of her as the taste on his lips in the quiet of memory, or would she soon be but a shadow paled by the brightness of what once was and again would be?Would  he imagine her beside him then, as she so often did?--Emlyn Lavellan struggles to find a place for herself without the purpose of the Inquisition, but finds herself fighting with what she knows is right and what she fears she can never leave behind.





	

_Hey Emmy,_

  
_Was good catching up, yeah? I missed Varric. And Cassandra. Who saw that one coming, right? Wish you hadn't run off after that arse-biscuit and come back without an arm or a sense of humor, though. It's all that friggin' elfy shite trying to do you in for years now, except this time I think it hit the mark. That's why I'm writing this, to say good riddance to it all. And because I'm rubbish at goodbyes._

  
_If you ever decide to pull yourself out of the friggin' past and finally pin it to the shiny head in charge, call up a Jenny. You'll have my arrows._

  
_-Sera_

  
Emlyn set the letter down with a heavy hand as soon as she finished. It was no surprise to her, except perhaps its existence at all - she figured Sera would have left without a word, just as she had done after defeating Corypheus. They had hardly spoken since Emlyn drank from the Well of Sorrow. It hurt to lose a friend, especially since she was running dangerously low on those lately, but in the end she had to choose a side. She had chosen her people.

  
The People, it seemed, had not chosen her but to bear the burden of their tarnished history, the knowledge that she had spent her life praying to slavers and wishing for a return to times perhaps darker even than the present. But she had also seen the beauty of the Fade, the twisted upside down of a formless world awaiting commands. She had walked the Crossroads and was left only to imagine the reach of this empire. The shelves of the Vir'Dithara sang with words-made-melody-made-dream with not but a taste of what once had been. Was this not a beauty worth preserving?

  
If only the price of this knowledge had not been everything which she had clung to for the rest of her misguided existence.

  
Emlyn watched from her balcony seat as some of the last carriages left from the Exalted Council. She would stay longer – there were arrangements to make, after all, regarding her future efforts against Fen’Harel, and she needed the help of the new Divine to make them. Leliana wouldn’t have it any other way, she said, but the hurried protestations from Scout Harding when Emlyn suggested to her that she reconnect with the Divine after things had settled down said that her circle was much more worried about Emlyn herself than the mission. She would do what she could to appease them, for the time being, even through the judgmental glances of the remaining clergy and nobles. She had always been forthcoming about her relationship – or lack of – with the Andrastian Chantry, and now the whispers on many nobles’ lips regarded the young Divine’s continued relationship with the Dalish apostate ex-Inquisitor.

  
She knew Leliana could handle whatever would come from the rumors, of that she had no doubt. But for the first time in years, she felt the weight of their stares heavy on her small frame, smaller now from what she had lost.

  
The midday sun shone bright on her pale eyes until she was forced to retreat into a darker corner of the Council’s wing at Halamshiral. She wandered aimlessly through halls of statuary, barely taking note of the towering figures from Chantry history. She had grown used to the heavy shadows they cast. Here in this place, she could call to the Maker, if she pleased. If no one recognized her, she would appear to be yet another elven servant praying to the only god she knew. And why shouldn’t she? She had cast away her last ties to family and faith when she stripped away her markings, when she _let him take them._

  
She felt as if she were half of herself, as the phantom pain where her arm once was would attest.

  
She was tired, so very tired, but with sleep came dreams, and she knew she could never trust her dreams again, lest the wolf lurking in the corner of her vision become real.

  
She wanted him back like a drowning man wants air. When she closed her eyes she could smell him, earthy and real as he touched her cheek for the first time, for the last time. If she let herself sink into the memories she could hear his words lithe across his tongue in ways that made her heart dance until always she was struck by the reality within them, the cruel, cruel hindsight as she let herself be led by him to whatever dark future he desired. For all the times she felt a leader, she now only saw a little girl playing with fire, addicted to getting burned. She was to be a symbol of strength for the Dalish, but how the false gods must have laughed as she stood proud with the markings of a slave, as she bound herself to the will of Mythal, as she gave all that she was to the Dread Wolf and watched him turn away.

  
She would do it all over just for the taste of him again, and she would hate herself for that weakness just as she hated herself for how well she fit into his arms and his plans.

  
If he succeeded, would he think of her? When life and the world he watched her build crumbled into the void, she wondered, would he picture her reveling in the beauty of destruction? In his impossibly long life, made longer in dreaming, could he still think of her as the taste on his lips in the quiet of memory, or would she soon be but a shadow paled by the brightness of what once was and again would be?

  
Would he imagine her beside him then, as she so often did?

  
She barely heard the footsteps echo across the chamber as she feigned interest in a nearby mural.

  
“Inquisitor?” came a soft, familiar tenor behind her as the footsteps neared.

  
“Just Emlyn now,” she corrected. She turned toward the approaching man, a soft, sad warmth reaching across her features at the sight of a friend.

  
“Maker,” Cullen said when he reached her. “You’re so pale. Is everything alright – is it the arm?”

  
She wanted to shrink away from his kindness, but that would only foster more concern. “No, I’m fine. Just tired. I haven’t been sleeping.” _I’m afraid of my dreams_.

  
The sudden understanding showed on his face, and she felt the distance between them grow again from the reminder that she had not chosen him that day years ago on the battlements. She had shied away from his kiss out of fear and uncertainty, for she knew they could never truly trust and understand each other. He would always be wary of her magic, and she would always wonder how much of his old prejudices survived. And so she had given herself to another, and Cullen never approached the subject again.

  
"That bastard," he said softly, the anger apparent in the lines on his brow. She noticed his gaze turn to where her left arm once was, and shifted uncomfortably.

  
"I'm fine," she said with a tone of finality. "This was the mark's work, not Solas." In truth, she had not yet become accustomed to recognizing her disability. Her thoughts had been on other matters, namely the Council and then the future. The palace teemed with servants to dress her and fretting friends to help with everything else, and as a mage she could still even fight to some capacity. Only when she forgot and tried to reach for something, finding herself coming short, did she much notice the difference. Her worries chose to focus instead on what else she had lost.

  
"Emlyn, I- You know that's not what I meant. He hurt you. You haven't been yourself since you came back from the eluvian, and I'm- Everyone is worried about you."

  
He meant well, she knew that. He always meant well, that was one of the endlessly infuriating thing about him. You cannot live on well meaning. "Oh, am I different?" she snapped. "Sorry, I hadn't noticed, been too busy making plans to stop my ex-lover from destroying the world."

  
He let out a pained breath through the silence as he struggled with how to respond to her outburst. She saved him the trouble. "I'm sorry, that was unfair."

  
“Don't be,” he said. “I know these past weeks have been difficult for you. I hope I’m not being insensitive, but if I can help – please, let me.”

  
She looked into his eyes, the color of her favorite tea and just as warm, and found herself unable to hold them for the sincerity. She didn’t want, no, deserve, sympathy. Not from him, of all people. Not now. “I’m surprised you’re still here. Almost everyone else has left Halamshiral.”

  
“Oh, yes," he said, struggling to readjust his tone to the small talk. "I’m leaving tomorrow to meet Mia in Val Royeaux. She has been pestering me for a year now to take her to see Orlais.”

  
“I thought you hated Val Royeaux?”

  
“Tremendously. Unfortunately, Mia still has it in her head that I am a good brother.”

  
She laughed softly, warm and genuine as her eyes met his more bravely this time. “It’s good to see you smile again,” he said, and she couldn’t help but to turn away from the kindness.

  
“Cullen, I-“

  
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  
“No, it’s not you. That’s the problem, isn’t it?” she added quietly. She knew she wasn't being fair to him, but she was too tired to be bothered. Tired of regrets and what-ifs on endless repeat. Tired of sympathy, and tired of goodbyes. "Maybe it should’ve been."

  
Cullen stood in silence with her for a moment as the weight of her words sank in. Emlyn wasn't even sure what they meant to her. Would she have been happier in the Commander's arms? It's possible. Likely, even. But that time had passed.

  
He placed a hand on her shoulder, solid and safe, grounding her when her every instinct was to retreat within herself.

  
"I care about you," he began, his thumb rubbing circles on her collarbone as he held her steady. "You've been through so much. I just want- You should be happy. For all that you've done for the Inquisition, for Thedas, you deserve that much."

  
His words, and that damned stubborn sincerity behind them had her crumbling composure failing. She wanted to tell him, let him see how very much she didn't deserve the happiness he wanted for her, but she knew he would never forgive her for it. She brought her hand to cover his still on her shoulder. It was cool and rough, but so comforting. She didn't realize how much she had needed a simple touch. From the warm look in his eyes that betrayed a deeper sadness, she knew there was more, if only she ask for it.

  
"I can't do this," she said, slipping his hand off her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Cullen. I'll see you off tomorrow."

  
She didn't look back as she turned away, but she knew how he must look. Standing alone, he would appear smaller than before as if deflated, his head not hung in dejection but forward in resignation. Just as he had been the last time she left him like that.

  
\---

  
She spent the rest of the day pacing in her quarters. There were matters to attend to with which she could distract herself when she pleased. Letters to write, mostly, though now she felt too scattered to be effective.  
Her worry brought her to her small jewelry box on the nightstand. She didn't have many pieces, but sometimes meetings called for finery. She lifted the felt bottom to find the compartment beneath, where she held the few Dalish trinkets she retained from her clan.

  
She lifted her old broach from the box. It had been with her at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and she had managed to hold onto it through the chaos of the Inquisition. It was solid and plain save for the intricate tree carved into the metal. Mythal's symbol, the same one which once adorned her face. She turned it over in her hand, the weight familiar.

  
"Mythal be with me," she said, holding it close to her chest. The voices from the Well of Sorrow had been quiet for some time. She once felt proud to be a protector of her god's knowledge; now she saw she was but another slave, if not to Mythal then to the false memory of oppressors who painted themselves as gods. The shame in her people's misguided beliefs made her feel no less alone without them to guide her.

  
She unclasped the broach and brought it toward her hood. She found herself struggling to pull the needle through with only one hand, but once she had it in place she was unable to hold it still while also working the clasp. Frustrated, she bent down to steady the broach against the nightstand, but instead stumbled, pricking her finger on the needle and drawing blood.

  
"Shit!" she yelled to release the frustration at her own inadequacy. She ripped the unclasped broach from her hood and threw it across the room in a fit of anger as she sank to her knees against the nightstand. The broach clattered against the opposite wall into a decorative vase, toppling it and shattering the delicate ceramic.

  
Not a moment passed before a worried voice sounded from outside her door. "Inquisitor! Are you hurt?" came the Commander's voice. Curse his timing that he would pass by her quarters now.

  
She took in a steadying breath before answering. "It's nothing."

  
She waited with held breath for the misplaced concern that she expected to come next. The silence lasted almost long enough for her to wonder if he had left. "May I come in?" he asked after a time.

  
She couldn't very well let him see her in this state, and she didn't want to turn him away for a second time today. She picked herself off the ground and wiped the beginnings of moisture from her eyes as she walked to the door. Steeling herself with a breath, she opened the door and let him inside.

  
His eyes went immediately to the shattered vase near the window. "What happened?"

  
"It offended my gods, apparently," she said, attempting to make light of her foolishness.

  
He moved toward the mess and knelt down. "Let me help you." She rushed beside him to gather broken ceramic, but by the time she reached him he had already recovered the broach.

  
"I remember you wearing this," he said as he turned it over in his hand. "Emlyn, tell me what happened."

  
She held our her hand to take the trinket from him, suddenly uncomfortable with another person holding something so precious. "I tried to put it on," she said, almost a whisper. "I couldn't work the clasp with one hand. It was stupid. I got frustrated and threw it."

  
"I can help you with it," he offered.

  
"No. No, I don't want it. It's from my clan, the day I received my vallaslin. I just thought, I don't know, I miss it. Believing."

  
Cullen reached for her hand that clasped the broach and held it between them. She let him move her, suddenly feeling the crushing weight of her own shame at her outburst. He covered her small hand with both of his, and her only thought was on the warmth of him, holding her to a world she no longer wanted any part of.

  
"I want to help you, Emlyn."

  
"I know. I can’t – I can’t let you. I don't _deserve_ it."

  
At her words, he pulled her forwards, meeting her halfway in a tight embrace. She allowed herself the comfort of his arms as she tucked her face into his shoulder, savoring the warm darkness of being enveloped in his affection. Cullen brought his own face near her neck so that she felt his breath tickling against her hair.

  
"I refuse to believe that," he whispered, and in the tenderness of the words and his touch she wished she could see herself if just for a moment as he still does.

  
She sat there for some time, simply letting him hold her. This was the only comfort she had allowed herself the luxury of since the Exalted Council began. Cullen had seen her weakness, and still he remained; she would let him see the rest. She laced her fingers through the back of his hair, so that when she finally pulled away from the embrace she could hold him to her. She felt the uncertainty in his shortened breaths as she touched her forehead to his. She needed this closeness, though she did not wonder for why.

  
When she brought her lips to his, she could tell he was not surprised. His mouth formed around hers, light and gentle but far from chaste. He felt good, tasted good, and for a moment she could almost forget about what this kiss wasn't.

  
But in his softness, there was no urgency. His lips moved with need, but a need born of patience and longing rather than fiery passion. His arms that held her against him kept her tight, but they held on for fear of loss rather than wander to claim what he knew was never really his. He was velvet when she was expecting leather. He was everything Solas wasn't, and he was hers, completely.

  
Still, she felt a sadness in the movements, the soft transience with which she had become so familiar, for she knew that at the end of every kiss was the call to wake up.

  
"Cullen, I can't. That was wrong of me."

  
His features had a contented softness to them, and a hint of a smile adorned his lips. "You know full well how long I've been wanting to do that, and still you think you are in the wrong?"

  
She found herself on the verge of tears once again, but she willed them back as best she could. Right now she could not deny that she wanted him, but she wanted him most in the dark parts of herself that want only for ruin, however sweet the sin; she knew he could not make her heal. She didn't deserve his sympathy, his comfort, and she sure as hell didn't deserve his adoration. Not after what she had allowed herself to become. She was tired of pretending to be better than she was.

  
“I’d have gone with him, you know? Solas. If he’d have let me. When I saw him then, I didn't want to save him. I wanted to help him."

  
“Emlyn-“

  
“No, you want to help? _Listen_ ," she said, her voice gaining strength. "I felt it, in the Fade, in the Crossroads, in all those memories in the Vir’Dithara, and every time the Well whispered to me. That was the world my people were supposed to live in, and everything good I did with the Inquisition didn’t matter because it was all based on lies and myths when the truth was sharing a bed with me. So that’s why I don’t sleep or smile, and why I can’t be with you.. I know how much it hurts to be lied to and betrayed, but I’d have done it to all of you anyways because I’m selfish and proud, and I don’t think I can ever stop loving him.”

  
Cullen didn’t look at her as she spoke, and once she was finished a silence fell between them. She had nothing left to fill it with than the sound of her heart racing from shame and uncertainty. She didn’t expect forgiveness, didn’t particularly want it. She knew she didn’t deserve it.

  
“It counts for something that you’re still here,” he said, finally. “Maker knows I’ve done things I’m not proud of, and I’d have probably done worse given the chance.” She looked into his eyes and shook her head. She didn’t want this, didn’t want him to bring himself down to her level in an effort to understand, but he continued anyways. “But I didn’t, and neither did you. In fact, you helped me move past my regrets. Forgive me, Emlyn, but I don’t believe you're as lost as you think you are.”

  
No, no, this was all wrong. She needed his anger, or disappointment, or anything except for this damned _sympathy_ everyone was so keen on giving her lately. She wanted him to hate her. She would collect the goodbye letters and use the words to remind her of her broken path. She wanted a distance from everyone who still trusted her so she could fade quietly from history just as every elf in power had done before her because this wasn’t a world made for them and she finally understood that.

  
“I don’t deserve you being alright with this.”

  
He looked at her with more sadness in his eyes than she had ever seen from him. “You put your trust in me when I didn’t believe that I deserved it. Let me do the same for you."

  
She couldn't love him the way he wanted, the way he should be loved. She looked into his eyes, the color of her favorite tea and of course she had always seen the irony.

  
Their second kiss was wet with her tears.

  
\---

  
He stayed with her that night, holding her close as she tried to sleep. Sometime before she finally drifted off he spoke to her about joining him to Val Royeaux and back to Fereldan. She didn't have to play the hero anymore. She could rest and heal, and he would be with her as long as she would have him.

  
It was a pretty picture, prettier still for the warmth she felt in his arms, a comfort in the waking world when she thought there were none.

  
She did not visit the Fade in her dreams. There was no wolf to run towards (because never had she run _from_ the wolf. She could only run _to_ him, scarcely stopping for breath). There was only herself and the choices she had made. The choices she had yet to make.

  
\---

  
_Cullen,_

  
_Emma ir abelasen, ma vhenan. Ar ma suledin nadas._

  
_Dareth shiral._

  
_-Emlyn_

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive my Elvhen. If I did it right, it roughly translates to "I am full of sorrows/so sorry, my heart. I must find my own strength in pain. Goodbye."
> 
> Because, you know, I don't like happiness.
> 
> Title comes from Pablo Neruda's Sonnet XVII, which fits both of these relationships quite well really and is just a beautiful poem you all should read.


End file.
